


Rebellion

by Anonymous



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Implied/Referenced Underage Relationship(s), Period-Typical Sexism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23890153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Who do you think she was?Who do you think Harrietta was?She was anything but obedience. She still is, and will always be. Thank you very much.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Evie Frye & Jacob Frye, Harry Potter & Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 15
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Sequence 1 - Damnation of Memory (pt.1)

Well, she might have misidentified cherry bombs as smoke bombs.

And had just thrown, like, five in a row.

First day on duty, understanding would be much appreciated.

Besides, you can't possibly blame her reaction, which happened when she jumped into a should-be-empty room only to discover five Templar guards, each two times her size, staring right back. Note, that was after she had been spotting on the rooftop for the entire afternoon.

Then, there was turmoil. To get away, she had to drop two more smoke bombs, along with a few hallucinogenic darts.

At least she made headshots in actual combat! Evie will be proud. 

And she will murder her for sure, or worse if Jacob takes over. The very man would so gladly tease her on this until the day they are both sent to join Dear God himself.

But her life would only continue after she survives this living hell, stuffed with numerous moving-arsenal disguised as thugs, all dressed in solemn black and white like they're ready to attend her funeral. 

Why on earth is the undersecretary's residence so heavily guarded any way? This place makes even Buckingham Palace look unoccupied! 

If you're curious about how she would know, the answer is, of course she'd know! The Palace was like the second home for her. It was a safe house, with a loving granny who was more tolerant of her "unruly behavior" than her own parents.

Fine, feel free to notice the stinging "was". If she hasn't run away...

"All alert! Intruder! INtrudeR!!"

"An AsSassin! Have you seen him?!"

"He was heRe!! A sEconD ago!!"

...God. That really startled her. 

Eavesdropping the fading roars in the shadows, she slides, step by step and smoothly, to the open window.

Why do they have to be so loud? And so stupidly offensive. Not all assassins are men! She had learnt about Élise, she knows Evie, and... herself also counts. Men didn't patent Agility, Power, and Control. Men don't underestimate her for being a woman. Men shan't.

Not those soulless thugs. Not Jacob. Not Aleck (despite he's a lovely man). Not Greenie (she doesn't know him too well so blame Jacob for the nickname.)

And not her father. Not some particular lemon-head narcissist who had "friendly reminded" her what an honor it would be to marry him. As if he is not the personification of all Miserables in her life, the reason she ran away from home in the first place.

Because a bloody marriage contract still needs to be fulfilled. 

Because her parents and dear granny (what a betrayal!) seemed so content with this new image of her, married and demure, carrying baby lemon-heads for the house of lemons. 

Then it became her responsibility. A union that would benefit not only the families involved, but also the Empire. Thus she had to accept with gratitude. 

Refusal was never an option. Refusal meant disgrace.

But.

Excuse me. 

Who do you think she was? 

**Who** do you think Harrietta was?

She was anything but obedience. She still is, and will always be. Thank you very much.

So.

_Rien à branler!*_ Quote her godfather. (She doubts he only knows this much in French.)

So. 

Blast them. She left, six months ago, not forgetting to tell her father if he was so willing, he could be the bride, and to drop off one hand-drawn portrait of a boasting ferret in her betrothed's familial post box.

Destination: commoners’ London. Or she would call it the real world with flesh and blood.

Life isn't a greenhouse full of flowers in bloom. She's fully aware of the truth of surviving thanks to dear godfather (when he's still around). That's why she lived the first few weeks perfectly fine.

Perhaps not perfectly, but fine.

Whitechapel was far from welcoming to strange faces, but since she managed to get a job soon enough, complaints about underpayment could wait. Her self-claimed guardian angel, little miss Clara O’Dea had scolded her, more than once, for being easily negligent over such unfair treatment, kind of amusing for someone who barged into her life as a lovely bread-robber.

That tiny goddess* has the spirit of one big bad dragon, breathing fire towards those she despises, and love to those she treasures. She thinks affectionately.

Now crouching wearily on the extended plane of the building, she can't help but wonder.

You know, it's truly considerate for London's architectural style to be this friendly to their... community. She assumes even some trained Rooks can infiltrate most of the public facilities, let alone assassins.

Wait, did anyone from the brotherhood participate in the urban planning and building design? Oh, she really needs to remember some faces from those routinely held balls. Last Christmas may be a good start...

"Stay alert! Our Lord wants him alive!"

"Yes sir!"

"No capture, no home, we clear?!"

"Yes sir!!"

This is not well. It sounds like they have sent a legion of guards on patrol. 

Is this mess really necessary? She hasn't taken anything from that accursed room! Except for the sanity of two vicious-looking guards, and that was for self-defense.

In no time, heads after heads are passing through the hallway and parading the open ground under. 

… And she's stuck. Great.

A moment of invaluable peace returns after the prolonged ruckus. At the end of the troop, two seemingly higher ranking officers flounce about and stop by a large china vase that is dangerously close to her hiding spot.

Concentrate. Concentrate. Concentrate. 

With her breath held, she senses*.

Behind the wall, the taller figure starts to ramble like a paranoiac. It seems the man could not open his mouth without twitching, which makes him sound like a spitting machine. Ghastly.

Okay. She grasps that some mysterious lord they work for is in a "concerning" mood that can lead to "terrible, terrible consequences".

A sharp cry let out by the shorter, rounder man aside interrupts him. Wait, is this one seriously crying, like shedding tears? He even sobs, God, and swears to "crush" the culprit with his own hands. She doubts the nerve he has.

No name was addressed, she still can't figure out which one of the Lords she knows is now so eager to slaughter her. It sends her goosebumps to think about one of those caring uncles can be this... cruel.

Repeatedly, something referred to as "7th ultimatum" was mentioned. The loss of this one makes them tremble, jump into each other's arms and then tremble again, in a visible way that she really needs not to witness.

Nevertheless, she muses after the pair's dramatic exeunt, she really hasn't taken anything.

Or has she?

Fumbling around her body, inside her pockets and pouch, in a tingle, she feels something sharp puncture her fingertip.

Like, a corner of an envelope.

This isn't right.

It can't be.

Since when…?

"I believe you require help," wrapped in a certain distinguishably stalled pause, a distinguishably fake, silky voice cuts off her mini mental crisis.

Not today. 

Not in this bloody moment. 

She shifts her body in a complexion of nausea, distaste, and horror. She's going to die and make tomorrow's headline the greatest scandal of all time.

_Heiress Potter found dead, suspect for thievery!_

The wall on her back freezes her all the way down to the end of her spine. The height of three-storey is insignificant to anyone with normal eyesight. Much of their convenience is due to the negligence of everybody – rarely would anyone bother searching the window hood and exterior sills.

Even with her hood on, she feels herself suffocated by the weight of his gaze.

Since when did the backyard become deserted? For how long has he been there, staring up at her, like a vulture at a bloody piece of meat?

"—my fair lady." The man-shark radiates that familiar complacency with such ease.

The worst of all.

He recognizes her as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Rien à branler: (I) don't give a damn.  
> *The name Clara O’Dea means "Clever, O Goddess!" in Latin.  
> *Press V to activate Eagle Vision.


	2. Sequence 1 - Damnation of Memory (pt.2)

Last year's Yule ball was a disaster. She couldn't even blame it entirely on one abominable man.

Ever since she made her entrance, the prime minister's wife (one of few people she would rather forget their names) was there, pestering her about the merits of marital life. Aristocrats of age were introduced, through the woman's astonishing zeal in her future bliss. Clearly, that absurd contract had yet been made public. 

Eyes came and went, scrutinizing from her face to every piece of jewelry on her body. Lips brushed the back of her hand, leaving greetings heavy and unheard. 

Loads of men would bid for Lady Harrietta; the most valuable trophy she was after all.

The gown was too bulky, the corset too tight, the diadem too heavy. Everything that had been bestowed on her had momentarily drained the strength of resistance. Preserving, she decided, for now. Her body stood still, resembling a porcelain doll made for display. Her senses floated away. 

People were mingling around. Loud and fussy. The sound of candles burning, strings vibrating, glasses clinking, fabrics rubbing, cheeks kissing, gossips spreading… She could hear everything, see everything, like she always did.

Secret lovers exchanged another fragile vow. Spinsters chased after the man of their dreams. Arrivistes prayed for opportunities falling from the sky. Politicians sparred in the battle of words.

Her parents readied with future in-laws for the coming announcement.

The world had no privacy in front of her. 

And it's a curse.

"I’ve heard that an ashen-haired lady," a man chuckled from behind, knocking her back to reality. “finally deigns to show up.”

"Ah! Young Lord Cavendish!" surprising at the newcomer, her unwanted matchmaker beamed visibly. She was poked in the waist, not so stealthily suggesting that she turned around. "Perfect timing! May I introduce…"

The man raised a dismissive hand, ignored the confusion written all over the woman’s face. "Look at those eyes," he approached closer and closer, leaning down until their breath touched, and continued his lyrical monodrama.

"No need for this one." fixating at the amber orbs [fuelled with shenanigans](https://files.catbox.moe/f94rht.gif), she bit out drily. “He’s a friend,”

"As green as a fresh pickled toad." Very creative, thanks. It would've been more charming if she hadn't heard the same verse over a hundred times.

She did a great job suppressing the urge to punch the devil out of this smugly handsome face. “...and my cousin.”

The poor woman almost squawked at their indecent closeness. 

Said one tipped his hat in a graceful move before he straightened back. "Been a while, dear." 

"Don't call me that unless you're here to murder you-know-who." She retorted with folded arms. Inappropriate gesture, she knew but had long lost her patience to care, especially in his presence.

"Not yet," it seemed that for the first time, Seraph Cavendish dropped his symbolic mischievous look. He led her out of the reach of the agitated woman–mostly due to the lack of attention from either of the duo–and examined her features with apparent caution. "So upset, huh?"

She freed herself from his grip, quite violently, despite being thankful for the good riddance. They got along well in this way. After all, you couldn't place two tigers in one cage and expect them to live in peace. "Do you need me to address it, in prose maybe?"

To her surprise, he missed the precious opportunity to retort but glanced over her shoulder for a second. When his attention went back, he took off his frock coat right away, almost shoving it onto her head. Before she could grumble about the sudden darkness, a hand was on her back, nudged her to the direction of the stairs. "You-know-who is looking for you in the crowds," her attempt to peek earned herself a light tap on the head. "Upstairs. Now go." 

"Until I reach you." Mouthed the words, he swiftly blended into the gaudy background, towards the looming group of bad omen.

Best mate ever. She thought to herself, his name shall remain on her will, not that she would let anyone know. 

The howling wind had seeped through the glasses that decorated most of the space (or everywhere, she'd say) on the third floor. Cold and vacant, as expected. After the warmer seasons, even servants hesitated to come up and do the housekeeping. All thanks to the supercilious Master, who had ordered to recreate the wonder of Crystal Palace at his own house despite strong objection from the architect himself. To flaunt the wealth under his surname, every guest up here was granted the view of the second Hanging Garden of Babylon from afar; statues of mythical figures and a group of albino peacocks to be noticed in specific. 

Hindered by the snowstorm that seemed wouldn't rest anytime soon, she could barely catch the pinnacle of the gazebo. The scene of children, or rather one unique duo with an unsought addition, chasing around it rose from the back of her mind. Of course, she sighed. Being the notorious double trouble they were, in the rare fond memories she had in this manor, Seraph had to be one major component. 

A little ruse, as always, was all they needed to upset everybody. Oh, how she missed those faces when their chaperone read out the role assignments (with a deep frown) for the mock-play! 

"Queen Guinevere goes to... young Master Cavendish? And Sir Lancelot, to young Lady Potter?" 

The already decided King Arthur, who had looked so overly confident about the final result, fumed at the snickering duo. They exchanged costumes in almost the blink of an eye. To the shrieks of the servants, he plucked the crown made of flowers from his blonde hair and flung at, unfortunately, the marble Cupid, as they dodged through the well-trimmed shrubs.

"That was mean, husband!" the taller boy shouted back, determined to further annoy King Fireball, whose face had been as red as a stock of burning charcoal. 

She could see the dazzling trail of wavy, jumpy tresses afront that were shades brighter than now, more pinkish and less ashen. "So long, my King!" The little girl, her younger self, was nimbler than a wild rabbit. Together, they hummed their victory the whole way, until the blond finally gave up the losing chase and panted behind.

"My _Father_ will hear about this!"

Interesting that years after, he still considered such a threat effective. Little did he know that, even with the family's wealth and political influence, their foreign origin still kept them out of the inner circle of the higher society. They needed the Potter name to ensure acceptance, as much as Lord Potter wanted the Malfoy shield to shun every route heading to the Parliament.

But, they didn't really think a single contract was enough to trap her, did they? She had gotten away numerous times, what could make this time an exception? 

Well, only if her cousin expected to come up and retrieve Lady Icicle, because the full glass construction apparently failed to keep up a survivable temperature. Sniffling under the wool coat, she let herself sink into the couch, curled up in a pile of soft, fluffy cushions. 

The lights were dim. There's nothing but blanched nothingness in her sight. She should not give in to somnolence at all, yet Seraph smelled like a mixture of citrus and vanilla. The floor clock is ticking, ticking, ticking. She shouldn't...

Just hope Mister Until-I-Reach-You would not fail her.

...

By the time a hand on her shoulder blew away the sweet slumber, the first thing she noticed was that the snow had stopped.

"Raphie?" she muffled a faint yawn before stabilizing her vision. "If I don't know how bothersome the lemon-heads are..." 

Her voice trailed off when, to her horror, she realized that she was towered over by a man unrecognizable, reeking danger that shocked her direct into consciousness.

The open room had fallen into an eerie silence. 

Paralyzed. Her body was paralyzed by a pair of lurid eyes, one in crimson while the other ice blue, that stared right into her soul. How was this even possible? Who was this man? 

Intimidated. She lost control of her own mind.

She felt vulnerable. 

When was the last time she felt... vulnerable? 

When only a few weeks old, a liability was left on the doorstep of an old acquaintance? When at five, she was forced to accept her inheritance, standing next to a couple that she never knew? When at nine, her first friend, the sunbeam snake brought back by Sirius was disposed of? When, when...

"Harry! Our little sister can be just Harry!"

Two familiar faces hovered over the cradle, waving toys cheerfully.

"Harry, we're always here for you! Don't forget us!"

Why were they crying? oh... since she had to be returned as an heiress.

"Get off..." she murmured, with the shame of being exposed, naked under the cruel scrutiny. The man was ripping her brain apart in an unexplainable way. Sensed her mildest resistance, the violation eased itself into deceptive caress. Show me who you are, Harry. Show me what you are. It hinted.

" _Harrietta? What a weird name, little human._ "

A glittery, rope-like body wriggled around her forearm.

" _Harry... don't let me rot here, will you?_ "

She heard herself wailing in the dark confinement room.

No.

Harry was anything but obedience. Harry had learnt to be strong before she became Harrietta Potter.

You have to mean it, Harry. If you want to fight, you have to mean it. A low, silky voice impaled her mind, piercing through with the force of a thousand triple-edged daggers. I know it hurts, Harry, as it should be. Why don't you be smart and surrender to me? 

Tears had overflown the threshold for pain. Dampened lashes fluttered in desperation. But even in the midst of such misery, the unyielding fire still blazed in her eyes, outshone the brightest star in the night sky. Granted that the butcher had barely any vestiges of humanity, he couldn't help but cease to admire this stubborn prey.

Harry was nothing but defiance. Harry had made herself unbreakable at her weakest.

So **NO**!

"Get Off Me!” one instant of distraction was enough for her struggle to burst out. She caught the man unprepared, and without hesitation, a ruthless SLAP that aimed to hurt knocked him aside. 

Diamonds on the ring indeed left several fearsome cuts over his cheek. Let's hope they would scar , she thought in a malicious, dizzy awareness. 

His head was turned sideways, body retreated by impetus. She seized the moment, jerked to her feet and rushed towards the rapier laying on the display stand by the wall. The decorative model was much heavier than her preference. Boiling hot palms, still numb from the blow, clutched the hilt, doing her best to suppress any trace of shudder.

Pointed by the tip of the blade, that damned face at first remained blank, until fingers reached out to wipe the blood from one quirked corner of his mouth. Without a word, the man inspected the sticky fluid as if he wasn't sure he had the ability to bleed at all.

Then he dared to [look amused](https://files.catbox.moe/z3m7ju.gif). Those horrific eyes drifted back to meet hers through the faint lighting.

No matter what sort of witchcraft he had practiced, she had no intention to experience it again. She lifted the tip higher, right at his throat. She was never in favor of so-called aristocratic privileges, e.g. Pardon for murder, yet she didn't mind to break the rule for once either. 

Tactful hands soon rose up, aligning his torso. The stranger bowed his head in a feigned humble gesture that could easily tempt any naive maiden. "Allow me to apologize," 

Liar. The tip was raised to a mere touch away from the jugular vein , forcing him to totter back. "Save your bloody charade." Sham manners might have brought him admission to the ball, but to her, it valued less than the mud on the street. She would so happily tear him into pieces, lynch him for what he had done. 

"Why so aggressive," a knowing smirk was flashed on his face after the deliberate, repulsive pause. A fearless innuendo that exasperated her more. "my fair Lady?"

Just as the words fell, he pounced on her way smaller frame – red-stained fingers snatched the foible so fiercely that in a loud CRACK, it was dismembered from the remnant of her only weapon. "Wha..!" Before she could process the sudden shock, she was flipped around in a split second, with a fiery body squeezed against her back.

Too quick. Too intimate. 

"Now, better not to challenge my endurance," All disguises were dropped at last. The sharklike predator bared his teeth that could end any life at his mercy. She realized in consternation, eyes widened. "when I still need you to listen."

"Follow your orders, if you wish your family intact." one arm that had tightened around her bare shoulders dragged her even closer. The broken rapier clattered to the ground.

"What are you…" she mumbled, scarcely audible.

"Don't you know best, future Lady Malfoy." he chuckled a little and let out a long breath into the braided locks, stroking the delicate skin just below her ear with the tip of his nose. "How futile it is to try avoiding the inevitable."

†††††††

Later that night, Seraph found her in a hidden broom cupboard, where they used to hide from their obnoxious companies. She refused to reveal the how and why, though he didn't ask either.

"I will visit you the other day." If he had quietly wiped away her tears during their parting, neither of them spoke it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Heterochromia iridum used to symbolize Sages, or Hyper-Hominids, in the AC franchise.


End file.
